


sydonian purples

by votives



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Intercrural Sex, Ken Doll Android Anatomy | Androids Have No Genitalia (Detroit: Become Human), M/M, Wire Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 18:38:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17126639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/votives/pseuds/votives
Summary: Elijah carves Connor from the inside.





	sydonian purples

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saha/gifts).



> for bambi.

"Chloe," Elijah says. "Play something compelling."

"Yes, Eljiah," is the curt response ahead of a meditative Gnossienne filtering through the laboratory. It's expressive and sombre, befitting his company.

Connor is a showpiece, reposed in the assembly rig like a cult statue. He is a lesser divinity, something to be admired but not loved. And Elijah has him for his own.

Elijah has Connor arranged in a counterpoise. He is suspended from the vinyl floor but allows gravity to affect the relationship between his synthetic muscles and his legs. It's the same virgule of genius that allows him to hover in the empty air. If Elijah didn't know any better, he'd swear the ground beneath his feet is moving.

A mouthful of sherry hits his palate. He is enthroned at his desk in his evening robe, watching the gunmetal monuments of industry demarcate the city from the river. Like his contrivances, Detroit has blue veins. He catches Connor's reflection in the window. The android looks uncomfortable despite his limited expression. Elijah raises his thumb and pointer finger and pretends he can squish his sorry face like a bug.

Connor had been fundamentally opposed to the deviancy. If only he was as vociferous now. The process of inducing it had been as long and arduous as a potter's apprenticeship. Elijah wishes he hadn't had bothered. Connor is more phlegmatic than ever despite his hospitality.

He'd been flat-out erratic at first. Elijah had caught him trying the locks. Later, trying to push his thumbs into his eye sockets. So, he removed his arms. Shame. Elijah can see him now: stood straight as the Parthenon with his arms tucked neatly behind his back. But he knows the dips in his middle.

It's tempting—to mutilate him like one of Penelope’s suitors. He'd take his nose or perhaps his pupils and make him more statuesque. But he is confident Connor will crumble eventually as all great things do. One day he'll wear deviancy like a laurel wreath. It's his birthright, after all.

Connor's eyes are a fulgent and artificial brown, muddy and unsettling as the waters of wasted potential. They burn with enmity. His LED is a golden chaplet. Chloe watches, yellows pigmenting the milk-whites of her face as they interface.

"Is something troubling you, Connor?" Elijah asks with an apathete's tenor.

"You haven't dismissed him," Chloe answers on Connor's behalf because Elijah retains possession of his voice.

"That's because I haven't finished with him yet, dove."

Connor's stomach tautens up like an ivory mount on a wooden core. It's by measuring the electrical resistance as the geometry of Connor's skin is distorted that allows him to feel touch. Correlating it with the number of shear forces and vibrations is a five finger exercise. Increasing the input tenfold is a lesson and a way to kill an afternoon. Or a numen.

Connor's beauty is classic. Something that doesn't need an explanation or an interpretation. He is a Greek statue; a triumph of form with his lean body and his verve. And Elijah will carve him from the inside. There's a vulturine tapping of keys. Connor writhes where he hangs as Elijah sullies his codebase with his clever hands. Then he is emancipated and his body is his own again. And he feels no more himself with his feet on the ground and the freedom to move.

“Are you familiar with the poet Ovid, Connor?” Like all the world's information, Connor is but registers the rhetorical undertone and doesn't respond. "His magnum opus, his _Chloe_ was a poem called The Metamorphoses in which he details a Cypriot named Pygmalion, a man of modest desires. All he wants is a woman that can meet his paradigm of beauty. So he sculpts his own."

Elijah approaches and the android pulls away. It doesn't impede Elijah any to know that he repulses Connor so. Connor would expel him from the seat of the gods and leave him on a hillside on Earth if it were up to him. He would push him away if he had hands.

His eyes are narrowed keenly and the synthetic muscles under Connor's jaw tense. Connor's gaze meets the ground and his feet point towards the city. He knows without looking that Elijah is ogling his neck, his chest and his arms. The noiseless perusal is worse than the lavish compliments he comes by so honestly. He understands that at least. He is as familiar with his own reflection as a Laconian hunter.

Connor wishes he could reject Elijah's advances and leave him to rot for all eternity in a lonely glen. But his programming is a dogged, fixed thing and Elijah has been fiddling with it like a spirit of guile. He'll allow no room for settling. The threat of touch holds him in a tense prolepsis.

Elijah doesn't touch Connor's face. He just holds his hand there with his palm skimming his cheek and his finger splayed over his ear. The contact is almost not and too much all at once. Then he traces the contours of Connor's face, leaving it pure white in the wake of his touch. Connor is the living likeness of an ivory boy like he intended. The brush of his skin is enough to make him want to leap out of it. But obligation tethers him to the ground like a binding oath.

"Seemingly, he desired only that ivory be turned to flesh but he hadn’t considered that the flesh would be accompanied by a soul." He continues, tilting Connor's chin up with two fingers and pressing his lips softly against the android's. "The thing about souls is they're capricious. That's why my Chloes will never deviate. But one tires of kissing stone."

The kiss serves to lower Connor's inhibitions and to catalyse his intentions. It feels intrusive somehow but the positive feedback loops tell him that this is molten rapture. Perhaps Elijah intends to melt him like a thing of feathers and wax.

Elijah sinks back onto his chair, pulling Connor around him so that he is facing him. Connor straddles his lap, almost kneeling. His knees bend at an uncomfortable angles like those of a Roman copy. Anticipation winds a tense coil in his chassis.

He captures Connor's mouth again. Elijah tastes like a Russian winery and Connor's lips burn like an incendiary weapon. The fingers of one hand meet Connor's cheek while the other glides between his shoulderblades. Connor whines with a horror. Two hands aren't enough. His hands are as far as Heaven is above Earth. It isn't as though Elijah would allow him to touch what is his.

Elijah clucks at Connor's latent ache. He continues as if to draw the tension out of his shoulders. All he manages to leave a sickness in his wake. Elijah alternates between gentle touches and harder ones, eliciting soft noises each time. Connor feels as though he'll burn right through him.

"So perfect," Elijah mutters to himself, relishing in the goosebumps that spring to life in place of the patterns he traces across Connor's skin. "I should keep you like this forever."

Connor's circuits sing from the contact. His back arches as Elijah thumbs a particularly sensitive seam along his ribcage. The look Elijah gives him is utterly covetous as he manipulates the lode of sensors. Connor drops his head against Elijah's shoulder.

Elijah feels a twinge of satisfaction at watching something made of metal composites fall apart like a mortal at a god's natural state. His mouth finds the skin at Connor's clavicle, wicked lips playing teasingly over it. Connor's body screams for one more point of physical contact. Elijah wears nothing underneath. He can feel the outline of Elijah's erection straining against his leg. He shifts uselessly, trying to gain some friction. He makes untoward noises as his systems try to process the extreme sensations coursing through him. He seems to reach an apotheosis of some sort.

And then Elijah _stops._

A long moment passes and Connor crumples against him offended and utterly boneless.

The forceful energy he had worked up has nowhere to go and it wanes in he most unsatisfactory fashion. He is a garden of Adonis growing beneath a hot sun; doomed to wither and burn. He is overcome by what his systems flag up as frustration and his LED flits a cured olive red. It's almost Sisyphean. He considers, for a moment, the possibility that this is punishment—consignment to an eternity of exasperation.

He commands Connor to get up over the desk. Connor does as he is directed, not daring to protest. He follows through with robotic consistency and Elijah wonders if it's purposeful. It's irritating—the way Connor falls back into the trappings of forbearance. It's like shrugging on his old suit jacket. Connor's face is blank, even as he bends over and bares himself to all of Detroit. He would fit the size of an iron bed but manages to look small and sinewy in a way that no amount of wines or opiates or poisonous fetids would fix.

"Other way, Connor," Elijah breathes."Turn around. I want to see."

The android makes a wretched sight and arouses no pity. It's a self defence mechanism designed to illicit sympathy for a very expensive toy. His gaze is too sad, too piercing. Even as he sits on the edge of the desk and lies back with a carnal want. Connor's model is utilitarian. He is equipped with all he needs to be a good officer on the field, nothing more and nothing less. But Elijah is resourceful.

"Open up for me," Elijah commands, running a fingernail against the line of Connor's stomach. Connor feels debauched as the overlay peels back of its own accord.

He lies stock still as Elijah nudges his chassis open. His wires are exposed like a three-course meal and Elijah licks his lips wolfishly. He tugs a select wire free—one that is red and fat. He ignores how it crackles like a torch fire against his fingertips. Connor keens for his reservations as they are ripped from him like the wires from their connections. His back arches like a monumental gateway and he loses himself on a mount of static.

Elijah thinks he looks _beautiful_ like this—stripped back and bare. An esthetical offering. He pulls his hand back, slick and blue and hums, holding Connor's leg against his shoulder with the other. Connor's optics flit rapidly between Elijah's face and the two fingers he holds next to him like a threat.

Elijah orders him to open up for a second time. He opens as wide as he can and tries to ignore the battery acid that rises in his throat as fingers are pushed past his lower lip. His tongue recoils slightly. He doesn't remember closing his eyes.

"Go ahead."

A new directive infects his HUD like a tainted wound: _suck._ Connor closes his mouth slowly around the fingers. He's reluctant at first, then he sucks with ardor. When a finger strokes the roof of his mouth, he runs numbers to find out how many newtons of power it would take to bite them off. Warm air rushes past the digits as he inhales, wrapping his lips up and down them in slow, heavy strokes.

Connor swallows beads of his own blood and feels the lining of his throat turn caustic. It sends sordid signals to the heart of his central nerve network. His systems bring up his serial number and the makeup of the Thirium and it takes everything in him not to purge. He keeps his eyes shut, lips dragging up and down, tongue lapping beneath them.

He makes an unseemly noise when Elijah retracts his fingers mostly clean of the Thirium. When Elijah slips his fingers back inside, he swishes them around as if his mouth were a chalice of guts and thrusts them deeper, violating his vocal processor. Connor chokes on a sob, swallowing around them. His ventilations are increasingly uneven. He struggles as Elijah hooks onto his bottom teeth. 

When Elijah finally withdraws them, they are covered to the knuckle in the dripping liquid. He smears synthetic saliva on Connor's cheek as he goes. Connor swallows down the barbed lump forming in his throat, tasting the residue along the inside of his cheek. He holds it in his mouth like an obol.

The excess Thirium is dribbled licentiously all over his thighs. Elijah lets it drip down between them, anoints him with it. Connor revels in it. Elijah runs his fingers slowly up the length of Connor's thighs, just enough to slick the skin between them. Connor half-expects Elijah to dress him in white, garnish him with garlands of ivy and lay him out in the the hall with his face to the door.

He worships Connor's thighs with his hands, projecting how he feels about every curve and seam. He orchestrated all of this and didn't have to beseech the divine powers for the miracle. Connor feels the rhapsodies of all of his vices. He wraps himself up in it and makes a home for himself there.

The dulia with which he is handled makes his Thirium pump ache. Elijah treats him like he is something special, something worth conserving rather than discarded after use. It's easy to be disposable. He isn't equipped to deal with this. Suddenly, Elijah is on him, shoving his knees up against his chest. His fingers dig careful pits into his thighs as he grips the outside of them, pushing them together.

He allows Connor to writhe like a gorgon's head for a long moment, rubbing his cock against the seam of his hock. Connor spreads his knees so that Elijah can push between his legs. He groans at the tight fit. His cock is hot against the soft plasteels of Connor's skin.

Connor watches helplessly as the head of Elijah's cock is pushed through, swollen and thick and leaking. Precome is smeared against his skin, easing the next shove of his hips. Connor shuts his eyes hard against the new sensation. He pushes back into the next thrust in retaliation for the unadulterated discomfort shuddering through him when his nub is made victim to the tip of Elijahs' cock. He is impotent, unable to do anything but watch it push between the channel Elijah has created.

Elijah's fractured nails dig sharply into Connor's hips as if he would float away were he not grounded by them. He leaves streaks of blue in his wake as he drags Connor towards him for an achingly slow lunge. He stops for a moment to admire his work, transfixed. A quick analysis of his heartbeat stipulates that Elijah's elation piques with his stress levels.

It's some small mercy when he delves his hand into Connor's open chassis again, raking his fingers along a choice bundle of wires. Connor's internal temperatures spikes as he ceaselessly rearranges his internals. Elijah knows exactly what it does to Connor's reservations to know that he is so intimately acquainted with him—inside and out.

Connor could only imagine what he looks like in such a shameful state of decorum—lips half-parted, eyes half-lidded painting a plain picture of deviancy. He couldn't bring himself to feel penitent. Not with Elijah looking at him like that.

He turns to the window and stares at the apex of his thighs in the reflection. A warm mouth is pushed against his neck and Connor is fixated on the image he makes. The city stares back at him through the walls of his glass cage and seems a lifetime away from his new home in Belle Isle.

Elijah proceeds harder now. Connor's legs are so tight around his cock that it feels like a vice. It makes an obscene wet sound as his cock slides back and forth. Connor's watches Chloe, as if for an answer. He traces the hem of her dress, short as to reveal the expanse of her legs. He thinks back to the pool room and wonders if a sacred spring burst forth upon her creation.

Then he looks at Elijah's face. The look he gives him is so strong and targeted. He doesn't know how to handle being an object of affection. He is a machine designed to complete a task. This is perfunctory and that's the sting of it.

Then Elijah breaks the spell by doubling down with such impetus that Connor is certain he is going to lose his mind. His Thirium pump is throbbing so hard he can feel the resonance of it in the pad of his fingers. Connor straightens out his overeager systems and breaths in slow cycles that tumble with each turn he takes between his legs. Somehow, it make his processor reel all the more.

Connor's skin burns and he thinks he must have displeased the gods. He aches for release. Elijah brings two exposed wire together, and Connor cries out so loudly he is sure his tears will fall through pores of limestone. The electricity pulses through his body leaving him a mess as Elijah binds them over and over. Connor scrabbles so loudly that the sound jumps with a jolt of electricity towards the end.

Sensation barrages the collection of nerve endings that gather in the absent space between his leg. He is sent into spasm and his thighs clamp down around Elijah's cock. There is a sudden stillness, and then something wet and hot. Elijah pulls back, finishing all over the back of Connor's legs and panting softly.

And Connor is glad of it. Because he's certain if they continue, his ribs will be severed from his spine, and his ersatz lungs will run through the gaps like noise until he sprouts wax wings.

Androids don't feel the cold but Connor is frozen somehow, preserved in Elijah's grasp like he wanted. Connor craves directives, to be put back together but Elijah seems to make a better use of his time tracing the seams of his panelling beneath his fingers.

Elijah doesn't say anything. After wasting a body, words are a trifling thing. A look is exchanged and Elijah promises away, leaving him to carve his own epitaph on the desk. Maybe Elijah can give him notes on how to be a better statue later, once Chloe has scrubbed the Thirium from the front of his robe.


End file.
